


Harmony

by hurricaneharmony



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Hook | Killian Jones In Love, Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan Fluff, F/M, Kindred Spirits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-10
Updated: 2014-04-10
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1444807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurricaneharmony/pseuds/hurricaneharmony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Har•mo•ny:</b> the sound of things that go together well; in tune and compatible with one another.</p><p>The pain doesn't go away. Not even after 300 centuries of being a villian, not after a year of being a hero.<br/>Hook is having one of those days, and Emma finds that the townspeople care about him more than anyone would realize.<br/>And who would have guessed that the notorious Captain Hook used to be a musician?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harmony

**Author's Note:**

> Because when a beautiful man sings and play the guitar, I absolutely cannot resist. I intended to write a short, 500-word-max drabble during a break from writing an essay (a.k.a. staring at it for nine consecutive hours and typing exactly one sentence). That did not happen. I have been writing this for hours, and I still have one sentence in my essay.  
> Please be merciful to me as you read, and please talk to me at colourfulmoniker-hook.tumblr.com

It had been over three hundred years, and there were still days when he seemed to wake with a dark cloud over his head, unable to shake the memories of what he’d lost- Liam, the only family he’d ever truly known; Milah, his first love; his hand; centuries spent in misery and a bloodthirsty quest for vengeance when he could have been happy.

What if he’d been more demanding with Liam instead of choosing that one fateful moment to be the obedient younger sibling, watching as he dug the dreamshade into his veins? What if he’d listened to Pan, and stayed in Neverland so Liam would have lived? What if he’d killed Rumplestiltskin when he had the chance, while he was still a sniveling coward begging for his wife? The questions came to mind all too easily in a never-ending stream as he trudged through long, heavy days.

“Coffee for the Captain.” Ruby held out the paper cup with a bright smile, her head tipping to one side and eyebrow lifting in confusion when he took it with a simple thanks, eyes trained on his hook as he used it as a cup-holder. No “lass” or “love” today, or even a joke? And instead of settling into his regular barstool, he left Granny’s immediately, nearly bumping into David and Mary Margaret on the way out.

“Hook!” David grinned, slapping him on the arm. “Care to join us for a bit?” The captain smiled thinly, muttering a quick reply before exiting, as the couple exchanged a look. 

On the way back to the Jolly Roger, he passed by Henry, who offered a cheerful “Mornin’, Captain!”, then a baffled frown when Hook continued on by with just a ruffle of his hair.

Today, layers of grief overlapped until his pettiest issue was an overwhelming loss. He really, really missed his left hand. He missed being able to do up buttons and laces in half the time it takes now. He missed how that hand had held Milah's so many times, he missed how they'd lay on the deck of the Jolly Roger with her head in his lap, long, dark curls fanned out as his fingers smoothed them, her gray-green eyes closed against the sun. And he missed all the things they'd done after that, in his cabin in the dark, countless kisses punctuating silence with his left hand planted on her cheek.

He missed that during the few kisses he and Emma had shared, he could only ever bury the one hand in her hair; only the one hand could trace across her cheekbone and jawline, down the curve of her neck and back around to cradle the back of her head. He could never feel the warmth of her skin through his hook, or do anything more than hold her around the waist with his forearm. While he knew she wasn't afraid of him or his hook, he couldn't shake the feeling that somehow he might hurt her if he let it slip his mind. And he hated that the hook represented a part of himself that he'd been so long that he couldn't escape, that it always carried the reminder of the ruthless man he'd been for centuries before her.

But strangely, today he missed most of all the pastimes that had been possible as Killian Jones, the two- handed pirate. He and his crew, including Milah, would sit surrounded by lanterns on the deck of the Jolly Roger at night, drunken laughter filling the air. There was an instrument that they'd acquired from another ship during a recent plunder, and, having always had an ear for music, he'd figured it out quickly and claimed it as his own. When he pressed down certain patterns of strings on the long, flat neck and plucked or strummed over a hole in the hollow body of the instrument, it could make beautiful noises perfect to accompany the many deep voices on the ship. A favourite ritual was born when Milah would teach the men new songs from her land as Killian played, and the men would make up their own pirating-related lyrics. 

Gods, he missed it all. He missed his men, who had all been killed in the Echo Caves. He missed Milah- an ache that never fully went away, even when he was with Emma. He missed his brother, his only family, with whom the line between "brothers" and "father and son" always tended to blur. And he missed all of the simple little things he had been and done when he was whole, not just a remnant of that day that the Crocodile took his Milah, and his hand.

And so, Killian "Hook" Jones, one-handed pirate with a drinking problem and a heart three sizes too large, sank to the deck of the Jolly Roger. He rested his elbows on his thighs, and let his face sink into his palm as he heard footsteps approaching on the wooden dock.

 

With her morning coffee in hand, Emma had just settled into her desk chair and began to shuffle through the sheriff station’s filing cabinet when the first call came.  
Ruby, frantic and rapid-firing whispered words into the phone, and reporting not a crime, but asking if she’d fought with _Hook_. And Emma nearly spluttered out a mouthful of coffee, coughing before incredulously answering, _“Uh, no?”_ , ignoring the sigh on the other end of the line. 

“You do realize we’re not together?” Emma added, but the girl had already hung up with a _click_. And the moment she let the phone drop to her desk with raised brows and a long exhale, it was ringing again.

“Emma?” Mary Margaret’s tone was cautious, concerned. “Is everything okay with you and Hook?”

Emma threw her head back, eyes pressing shut. “ _Why_ does everyone keep asking me that? There is nothing even _happening_ between Hook and I.”

David’s voice took over the line. “So you don’t know why he’s wandering around town, looking like a kicked puppy?”

“I am the _sheriff_ of this town, not the counselor. Go ask Archie about his symptoms or something.”

 _“Emma.”_ Both voices sighed in unison, her mother’s sympathetic and her father’s exasperated. “Just… go see him. You two understand each other.” David’s voice was slightly reluctant, but sincere nonetheless. Emma puffed out a breath, hanging up the phone and shrugging on her jacket.

On call already, and her coffee hadn’t even cooled yet. She strode to the door, pulling it open with one hand, then gasping as she caught a shape that tumbled through, falling into her with a muffled _oof._

“Hi, Mom.” Henry beamed sheepishly, shrugging so one shoulder met his ear.  
“Hen- wha- why are you not in school?” Emma spluttered.

“I was on my way! But then I ran into Hook-”

“Oh, god…” She interjected with a groan.

“-and he just looked really sad. Kind of like Mary Margaret after that thing with Cora and Rumplestiltskin happened when we got back from New York, except she couldn’t get out of bed, and Hook was walking around, and he wasn’t crying. But, like, he had that same look on his face, like he was _lost_ or something. Y’know? Like you looked after Hook got you your memories back, and-”

 _“Henry.”_ Emma interrupted again, bending so their eyes met. “I was just on my way to check on him.” She chuckled, “Would you believe you’re the fourth person in the last ten minutes to ask me about Hook?”

She escorted Henry back to school, practically shoving the chatterbox through the doors, then headed over to the docks. She rolled her eyes, took a deep breath, and stepped onto the Jolly Roger.

 

She found the hunched figure immediately, settling next to him on the floor behind the helm, and deciding when he didn’t even look up to acknowledge her presence that something really was wrong. Mirroring his posture, they sit in silence until he opens his mouth, his voice halting and lost, as if he isn’t fully aware of his words.

"I just... hate it. That I have a weapon for a limb, and it's good for nothing but holding drinks. And I just can't stop remembering." He looked up, squinting at the sky, and Emma recalled his words from _so_ long ago: about _“the same look in their eyes- the look you get when you’ve been left alone.”_

"There... was this instrument. This thing we'd taken one day, and I could press on the strings with my left hand and pluck them with my right. And... and I miss it. My hand. Miss her. I can't forget."

And he wove an intricate tale of love and adventure and the closeness that could only be shared in or understood by the men on his boat, bonded by mistrust of anything outside of the ship, by being alone with each other as sole companions in the world, by drinking at night to forget what they left behind but calling it a celebration for the way things are. He told of ridiculous songs conjured from alcohol drowning the blood, sang along with the strum of a stolen treasure, both worthless and priceless. And he told of stolen moments all alone, tucked away in the quiet between supplies of gunpowder and food rations, the music he created smoothing down painful memories that would jut up from where he'd buried them, soft notes dulling the sharp edges of things of the past that still hit hard, suddenly and demanding his attention.

Of all the gold, jewels, and other loot that they'd acquired, that instrument was his only true treasure. The men knew not to touch it, that it was the only treasure he wouldn’t share. And those lonely men and one woman would always look forward to the night, when they could sing their hearts out in efforts to ignore the inevitable changes between who they were and who they’d become.

When Milah died, he'd buried it with her at sea. It seemed only fitting that his only love left his life along with the only thing he loved but could never again use. Killian Jones, the secretly gentle pirate who loved deeply- whether it was a woman, or brother, or music- was gone, buried along with the remnants of his past life. He was Hook now; a moniker as ruthless as his eternal quest for vengeance.

But now he was both, the pirate and the lieutenant and the villain and hero all in one broken man, sitting beside a beautiful woman, whose eyes were glowing in a beam of afternoon sunlight and were trained on him with every word of his story. And as his story tapered to an end and they returned to comfortable silence, she stood abruptly.

 _Don’t go._ He pleaded silently. But without him having to say it, she promised that she’d be back in ten minutes at the most, that there was something she wanted to show him. And she jogged off, leaving him once again alone. The same loneliness that had been his sole companion for centuries sat on the edge of his thoughts, which he kept focused on Emma. How she seemed to be the only person who could understand anyone and everyone, because she’d experienced everything. The warmth of her knee as it leaned against his thigh, the softness of her hair under his hand when she’d uncharacteristically thrown herself into his arms after regaining her memories. He thought of her until she returned, carrying with her a large, unusually shaped case.

She’d seen it at Gold’s shop a while ago, she said. She’d wanted to buy it anyway, since she had one back in New York. She didn’t know if this was what he was talking about, but _“figured it was probably close enough”_ , and she knelt to open the case-

And there it was. It was sleeker, more polished and sturdy-looking, but surely some modern version of his prized possession. He lifted it into his lap, marveling at the smooth curves on either sides of the instrument’s body, the six steel strings glinting. And his breath caught in his throat when he saw the carving on the back of the headstock- the same compass that he’d marked on his instrument so long ago. Surely it couldn’t be his. That would be impossible. But Gold’s shop was full of impossible things. He cradled it in his arms, his hand coming to rest where he would have played it, but stopping when his hook clicked against the wood.  
“Playing guitar was the only valuable thing I learned during my year in New York.” Emma murmured, smiling softly at the awestruck man beside her, her eyes widening when he suddenly shoved it into her lap.

_Guitar. So that’s what it was called._

“Will you play it? Please, Emma?” He whispered, a faint smile playing on his lips.

And so she did, strumming some beautiful song, light and graceful, then transitioning into a darker tune, her left hand moving up the fret boards as her right hand plucked and picked delicately at the strings in a pattern. He closed his eyes, letting his head rest back against the wall of his ship, drinking in the notes as they took him back in time, to days when he was younger, lighter, smiled more often.

“Here, you try.” He heard her say, and opened his eyes to her scooting closer, and placing his right hand over the strings while she pressed down chords with her left. But each time, they were rewarded with a disappointing buzz, rather than the rich tones. They couldn't sit close enough to play properly without keeping enough distance for comfort. She’d try to change chords, then they’d nearly drop the guitar.

Emma sighed loudly, suddenly shoving the guitar onto the deck, and to his shock scooted between his outstretched legs to rest with her back against his chest, pulling the guitar back into her lap. At first he was too stunned to react, but his hook arm instinctively wrapped around her waist, keeping her pressed against him as if afraid she’d run away at any second.

Moments passed before Emma let her head drop back onto his shoulder, lips inches from his jawbone and making him shiver when she murmured "try it again now." Now, with no distance between them, he could reach around her to strum the guitar with his right hand, playing the notes that she created with her left. Her head still nestled on his shoulder, her free hand reaching up to blindly trace his jawline up to his neck, he can’t focus on a consistent pattern to play, all thoughts of loss forgotten.

Because as her hair presses against his cheek, as he pulls her closer into his chest, they both find the remedy that they’d searched for all their lives, the cure to pain. Love- a safehouse, stability that you can lean into and never worry about it collapsing. And that is a home.


End file.
